


Breath of Light

by Quilly



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Post-Sburb/Sgrub, first attempt aaaaah, in which everyone is a huge dork
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-28 18:05:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/677293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quilly/pseuds/Quilly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vriska avoids John those first few months.</p>
<p>(Day Four of Quilly's February OTP Extravaganza. For datwindyfellow)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breath of Light

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, posting this on a non-even day, but this time I did it on purpose: it's datwindyfellow's birthday today! Yaaaay! :D Anyway, this is my first attempt at publishing anything Homestuck-related, so I hope it goes over well. Enjoy!

You avoid John, those first few months.

 

To be fair, not many people are seeking you out, anyway. Not like you want them to. For once, Vriska Serket doesn’t want to be the center of attention. You want…space. An empty vacuum to organize yourself, stitch yourself back together. The new planet has gentler sunlight and new organisms and places to explore, but you ignore it all. It doesn’t have an indigenous population ( _not yet_ , so the whispers go), buried treasure, or cryptic temples. It’s a fresh slate.

 

Once or twice Terezi throws a rock at your hive (weirdness upon weirdness, the planet _did_ come with a house for every player, troll, human, and cherub; you are beyond done with trying to understand all the mechanics of that stupid game), and Kanaya makes an appearance, and Aranea natters at the door for, like, an hour. Tavros, with Gamzee as backup, timidly knocks, once. You don’t even get out of your recuperacoon. Your husktop is buried under a pile of cushions in a completely different part of the hive. You curl up into yourself and let yourself feel and think for as long as the sopor will let you. Which isn’t a lot; you are still getting used to having a body again.

 

John knocks on your window, when he comes the first time.

 

He’s persistent, too. You can hear his inane nattering even when you slam your hands over your aural canals.

 

“Hey! Vriska! Vriska! Wake up! I’ve got something to show you! It’s really cool! Vriska!”

 

You flip him off and roll over.

 

“Vriska, I know you’re awake! Don’t make me come in there!”

 

“John, you dope,” you yell, voice scratchy, “go _away_!”

 

“What?” he yells, and you peek over the rim of your pod. Yes, his ear is actually pressed to the glass. You repeat yourself. He leans back and gives you a look, and you sink back into the slime. Eventually his tapping fades away, and when you check he’s not there anymore. Thank gog.

 

You’re not sure how much time passes, between the first visit and the second, but you’ve graduated to showering semi-frequently and laying on the cushion pile your husktop is under. You can hear the beeping, every eight minutes on the dot. You ignore it.

 

Eventually someone knocks on the door. You ignore that, too. You’re getting good at ignoring things.

 

“Vriskaaaaaaaa!” John whines. “You’re not even in your room anymore! Hang on, wait—what’s the troll word? Rest block or whatever?”

 

You sigh deeply.

 

“Well, whatever it is, you’ve been cooped up too long! Come on, Vriska, at least come to the door! Can you come to the door? _Please_?”

 

You think about it. You really do. But you bite your lip and don’t move. You’re not…you’re just not ready to face him yet.

 

This is completely ridiculous, of course, and you know it is, because you saw him after Lord English destroyed the one you—

 

Um

 

It’s not like this is the first time you’ve seen him after that bubble was destroyed, is what you’re getting at. Yeah.

 

“Alright,” John says, and you hate it when he makes that voice because you know exactly what his face looks like, too, and he looks like a kicked barkbeast. Not like Tavros—Tavros had one similar, but he looked more like a baby barkbeast that couldn’t move its legs. John’s looks like a barkbeast who doesn’t get it but will keep coming back anyway. You really hate (pity?) that about him.

 

“I guess I’ll just…leave you alone, then. Sorry, whatever it was I did.”

 

Once he leaves you put a pillow over your head and _scream_.

 

The first time you leave your hive, you triple-check to make sure no one’s around and sneak out the back. It’s a beautiful world, you have to say; fresh, sparkling, just _ripe_ for some chaos. Not a lot, just a little. Stir the pot. Where is everyone, anyway? You can’t see any other hives (or those weird human dwellings…houses?), at least not in this direction; your Vision Eightfold is as good as ever. You can see all the way to the sea, a vast bluish-green ocean preceded by a wide swath of sugar-white sand, and…aha! There they are. Looks like a few of them, anyway, a big tangle of species and beach equipment. Tavros’ dreamy dancestor is flitting around in the sky. And—oh, crap, there’s Aranea, and she’s looking back at you, you can see each other.

 

You narrow your eyes, but she just smiles, winks, and goes back to talking to one of the humans—you don’t remember his name, he’s one of the newer ones. Looks a bit like John with tiny shorts and bigger biceps.

 

For a moment—a brief, fleeting moment—you think about joining them. You’ve got beach stuff. You’ve got a hot bod. You’ve got a pan full of boredom. But…the time doesn’t seem quite right yet. You’re not sure why. But as you go back inside, you realize this almost-excursion has given you more energy than you’ve had in…what? Months? Sweeps?

 

You’re still avoiding John, but the first time you reach out to someone it seems like everyone knows about it. You keep getting messages along the lines of “She lives!” and “I thought you’d died again, Serket.” Comforting. Clearly your influence is slipping. You make a mental note to change that. But first, Kanaya and the plate of goodies she seems to have prepared for this occasion are waiting.

 

“Since when do you cook?” you ask, stuffing cookies in your mouth. They taste a little funny. Too sweet. You think it’s probably a human recipe.

 

“Quite a lot, recently,” Kanaya replies, ever polite. “Rose and I are making it a game to see who can outbake whom.”

 

“Aww,” you snicker, wiping crumbs from your shirt. “That’s adorable.” Something occurs to you. “Hey, Kanaya, are you still all glowy and ethereal?”

 

In answer Kanaya becomes unbearably bright for a moment, then flickers off. “Yes,” she smiles, “but John is most often the judge, provided we don’t serve him cake of any kind.”

 

You swallow thickly and avoid Kanaya’s very pointed (and very jade; you guys can’t be old enough for that already, can you?) stare.

 

“He tells us he has been here twice and attempted to contact you electronically five times,” Kanaya says primly. “Is something going on between you and John?”

 

You smirk. “Nothing that needs your ashen expertise, Kanaya.” She flushes green, then relaxes. “No, um…I’m just…not sure.”

 

“About?”

 

Well, you’re not sure how to answer that one, and look, there are more cookies on this plate, aren’t you a clever troll for figuring out a clever diversion around that one? But cookies don’t last forever…Kanaya’s patience, it seems, does. She’s still staring at you after you swallow the last bite.

 

So you break down, and you tell her. You tell her about the John in the dream bubbles. You tell her about the stupid shenanigans you got up to—granted, shenanigans that _totally_ helped save everyone’s ungrateful butts, but not all of them were completely useful, even you have to admit. You tell her about Tavros, about the talk (fight) that finally broke every creepy inter-dependent hold you had on each other. You talk a lot, actually, but it keeps coming back to John and why you’re afraid of him.

 

Kanaya listens, and for that alone you could kiss her, but you’re not sure how she would react to that anymore (you’re not sure how _you_ would react anymore). She listens, and when you’re done you put your head in your hands and stare at the patterns on the countertop.

 

“Well, Vriska,” Kanaya says in that measured voice of hers, “while I am no relationship expert like Karkat—” There’s something in her voice that makes you think “pale” but more affectionate; it reminds you of how John used to talk about his human friends, “—I can give you a relatively solid nugget of advice.” She leans in, until your horns are almost brushing. You can’t tell if you’re uncomfortable or slightly aroused.

 

“Don’t let him slip away from you,” she whispers, and then she clocks you in the side of the head. You reel back, hissing, your thinkpan now thoroughly scrambled, and she smiles.

 

“That’s for every stupid _Con Air_ reference I had to listen to,” she says sweetly, and picks up the empty plate. “Thank you for finally opening up, Vriska. I appreciated this chat.”

 

“My pleasure,” you say through gritted teeth, restraining yourself quite admirably as she does a funny little curtsy and leaves. It thunders outside.

 

You take a look at yourself in your ablution block when you remember Kanaya’s eyes are jade-green now. Your hair is completely out of control, in desperate need of a trim, and if you tousle it—just so—it is _totally_ sexy. And—yup, there it is, bright thick cerulean leaking into your irises, all eight of ‘em. You _stare_ for a while. You’re not sure how to process it. In your mind and blood-pusher you still feel like the six-sweep-old who talked incessantly about irons in the fire, but in your gut and soul you feel much older. Sweeps older. Too old to be the cool-skinned babe looking back at you.

 

When it starts to rain, you go outside and let it pour over you, turning your face up and letting it soak through your hair and clothes, letting the wind whip everything about and for a second—the briefest of seconds—you’re six sweeps old and dead and your _awesome_ human matesprit/boyfriend hybrid is watching every Nic Cage movie conceivable with his arm around your shoulders. You can almost see his stupid buck teeth…oh, wait, yes, you can, because he’s standing on the outside edge of your lawnring, rubbing his arm and biting his lip and oh _jegus_ why is that hot.

 

You stare at each other for a long time. His hair is shaggy and soaked and his glasses, like yours, are pebbly with raindrops. It makes everything a little distorted, but your little visual boost is letting you drink in every change. He’s taller, probably just a little taller than you, which is impressive. He looks…mature. Older. Too old. Like you.

 

“Eighth time’s the charm?” he says, and his voice isn’t squeaky anymore and…well…

 

You take exactly eight steps, grab his shirtfront, and pull him in.


End file.
